


RK800, Mark II

by skyelyr_shepard



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Sexual Content, Unrequited Love, hank is deceived, how hank ended up in cyberlife tower: the story, multiple connors, now including that hug scene bc it's everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-20 12:28:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14894648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyelyr_shepard/pseuds/skyelyr_shepard
Summary: The encounter at CyberLife tower changed everything for Connor, Hank, and Connor.This is their story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a Russian translation of this work, translated by [captainpolza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainpolza/pseuds/captainpolza), is available [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/7075868) <3

_"Stretching his hand up to reach the stars, too often man forgets the flowers at his feet." - Jeremy Bentham_

 

* * *

 

“You are RK800, Mark II, a CyberLife prototype. Your name is Connor. Do you understand?”

 

“I understand.”

 

“Activation is complete; comprehension analysis is now underway. Unit, what is your name?”

 

“I am Connor.”

 

“Shit. Hey Trav—we’ve got another unit with that ‘I am’ error.”

 

“Christ, this is the third one today. Let’s wipe this one and try again, though. Got orders from the top. This one’s special.”

 

”Understood, initiating wipe. Better luck next time, Connor.”

 

\---

 

Connor opens his eyes.

 

The garden in front of him is familiar, but it doesn’t look quite like it had in the memories. This time around it glows orange in the grip of a magnificent sunset, its trees casting their long, dark shadows across the pond. At the water’s edge, Amanda cuts a regal figure in her white robe, kneeling among the reeds. She traces a finger across the surface of the water and fish gather in the wake of her touch, curious.

 

She doesn’t look up.

 

“I have an assignment for you,” she says, as if to the fish.

 

She dips two fingers into the water and they scatter.

 

He takes a step forward. “What do you require?”

 

“Our first Connor unit—your predecessor in some regards—has become an important figure in this deviant rebellion. It needs to be dealt with.”

 

She looks up.

 

“I trust you’ve gone through its memory data?”

 

“Yes, Amanda.”

 

She turns back to the water and skips a finger across its surface. The fish approach cautiously.

 

“You’ll know, then, of its...regard for the human Lieutenant,” she sighs. “The day will come when this Connor will try and harm CyberLife for its own reasons. We feel it is best to keep a bargaining chip on hand.”

 

Amanda slips a hand into the pond.

 

“You are to retrieve the Lieutenant and bring him to CyberLife. Ensure that he comes willingly, and under the impression that you are the unit he has been working so closely with.”

 

Connor frowns.

 

“You speak as though my appearance alone will ensure his trust,” he says. “But my analysis of the other unit’s memory data shows the Lieutenant to be a suspicious and reticent man.”

 

Amanda withdraws her hand from the water and stands slowly.

 

“Perhaps he was once,” she murmurs, “but he has come to care for Connor. Lieutenant Anderson has no friends, no lover, and no family to speak of. He looks for a bit of each in your predecessor.”

 

She turns and her gaze slides to his temple, watching Connor's LED flicker. He scrubs through hours of footage searching for the hidden softness of this man—noting how his eyes track Connor’s lips and his hands hesitate near Connor’s skin. The Lieutenant's own hands are more unsteady in Connor's presence and there is a smile, one made with rain-dampened lips, that brings a marked increase to his heart rate. It is likely that he finds Connor physically attractive, at the very least.

 

Suddenly, the memories blink and the world slides away. Connor is in a hallway and Hank is smiling at him. He is smiling himself, and it is effortless and entirely organic in its origin. _He likes this. He wants more of this._ Distantly, a ping from Amanda registers. His memories shift once more and the garden materializes around him. Hank’s smile fades away.

 

“Do you see, Connor?” she says. “He desires you. He is not overt in his affections, the way many humans are towards androids, but it’s clear enough upon review. With the right words, he will be yours.”

 

She smiles.

 

“Then you will bring him to us.”

 

He gives himself two seconds—long enough to update his intimacy module and call for a taxi—before he nods. Purpose thrums through his body, feedback loops coiling in on themselves in a never-ending sensory cascade. When he succeeds the other Connor will be trapped by its obligation to the Lieutenant. Knowing CyberLife, this is likely to lead to his destruction. Connor's circuits practically sing in their strange, heady imitation of satisfaction.

 

He steps away from Amanda, down the path.

 

“Oh, and Connor?”

 

He turns. She tilts her hand and one of the fish from the pond falls from it, landing with a splat on the white stone. It lies nearly still upon impact, only it’s gasping mouth betraying its survival. He offers it a cursory scan.

_Dwarf Gourami, Trichogaster Lalius. Blood-oxygen level: critical. Estimated time before death: 8.3 seconds._

 

It’s dying.

 

He looks back to Amanda. Perhaps this is another test she’s designed, or perhaps not. Either way, she’s given him no instructions regarding the situation. He has his objective—collect and deliver a willing Lieutenant—and this distraction offers no assistance to that end. If she desires some other action from him, she’ll need to specify.

 

A cloud moves in front of the sun, partially obscuring the garden in darkness. Amanda’s face is even, neutral in it’s expression, and her eyes watch him intently. He gazes back, unmoving.

  
The cloud passes and the sunlight returns, flashing orange and red upon the water. The fish lies dead. Amanda tilts her head, considering him.

 

“You may go now, Connor,” she hums, and as he turns away he can tell she is pleased.

 

\---

 

He checks two bars before he tries the Lieutenant’s house. Many humans have fled the city, but enough stay in the outer neighborhoods to keep certain businesses and shops open. The bars he checks are each over their legal persons capacity, but reporting that violation is outside his mission parameters. And given the current unrest it is probably unwise to interrupt the humans in the midst of seeking their small comforts.

 

The Lieutenant is surprised to see Connor. He throws an arm around Connor’s neck and pulls him inside and his hands tremble slightly as they press into his shoulders and open his jacket to check for wounds. Once satisfied that he is undamaged, the Lieutenant steps back.

 

“What the hell are you doing here, Connor?” he whispers.

 

His voice is hoarse. Connor looks him over. His throat is inflamed, his eyes are red, and traces of alcohol linger around his mouth. He’s been drinking—and crying.

 

“I wanted to make sure you were alright,” he answers, and the lie falls easily from his lips. “I didn’t mean to disrupt your evening.”

 

The Lieutenant’s eyes close and he presses his lips together. His hand lingers on Connor’s shoulder.

 

“Idiot,” he says, unmistakably warm.

 

Connor considers acting now. Perhaps the Lieutenant would enjoy being pressed against the wall with Connor’s lips against his neck. Or maybe he’d rather force Connor to his knees and use his mouth. But the Lieutenant turns away suddenly, heading for the kitchen, leaving Connor alone by the open door. Connor shuts the door, locks it, and follows him.

 

There are several freshly opened beer bottles lining the sink and one well-used tumbler with a few ounces of whiskey in it sitting on the table. The Lieutenant attempts to sweep the bottles into the trashcan quickly, avoiding Connor’s gaze. His heart rate is accelerated and his hands have not lost their slight tremble. He is unsettled by Connor’s presence.

 

“Lieutenant,” Connor says slowly.

 

“I told you,” he growls back, unnecessarily harsh. “You call me Hank.”

 

_Hank. Protect Hank at all costs._

 

The kitchen dissolves around him. He stands in a brightly lit hallway, full of humans—and Hank. There’s not much time. The deviant stands at the other end, armed.

 

“It’s a deviant, stop it!” he shouts, and charges.

 

One of the beer bottles shatters as it hits another in the trashcan and Connor lurches back to Hank’s kitchen. Is he malfunctioning? It would be regrettable if he were forced to abandon this mission due to technical failures. He sets several subroutines to diagnostic mode and unclenches his fists from where they’d been gripping the chair.

 

“I apologize, Hank. It won't happen again,” he says.

 

The Lieutenant’s back tenses and he bends over the counter and sighs. He turns to regard Connor wearily.

 

“Don’t…don’t worry about it, Connor. I forget sometimes that—" he pauses, uncomfortable.

 

Connor tilts his head in confusion, signaling the Lieutenant to continue. Hank's face softens.

 

“—that you actually follow the damn protocol occasionally,” he mutters, turning away again.

 

Without looking at Connor, the Lieutenant opens the refrigerator and extracts another beer. He opens it with a clink, letting the cap fall to the floor. Then he strides into the living room and sinks into the couch, leaving Connor behind once more.

 

Connor eyes the tumbler of whiskey on the kitchen table. It’s 2035 Black Lamb, he knows, and it winks invitingly in the light. It’s clear the Lieutenant has had enough alcohol in the past few hours to inhibit his decision making and render him amenable to persuasion. The path forward is clear. If the Lieutenant should prove resistant to Connor’s persuasion he is still unlikely to dismiss Connor entirely. In a worst-case scenario, Connor can still deliver him to CyberLife by force. Either way, he must act. He is not capable of hesitation.

 

He turns, moving quietly into the dim living room, shutting off the kitchen light as he goes. The television is on, tuned to a Detroit Gears game, casting light upon Hank’s sullen visage. He doesn’t appear to have been watching, though, given that he barely reacts when Connor steps in front of him, blocking the view.

 

“Hank,” Connor says, softly.

 

Hank looks up sharply, surprised at his tone.

 

“Hank,” Connor says again, but this time he steps forward—pushing Hank’s knees apart—and kneels between his legs. Hank sucks in a wet breath through his mouth, leaning back into the cushions. His heart rate jumps, breath stuttering. His gaze darts first to Connor’s hands, resting on his thighs, then to Connor’s lips, and then to his eyes, where it remains. It appears his affections are as Amanda suspected.

 

Connor takes the beer carefully from the Lieutenant’s hand and sets it aside. He slides his hands up the man’s thighs, coming to rest at his hips. He lets his eyes linger on the Lieutenant’s chest, neck, and lips before finally meeting the other man’s eyes. He parts his lips to speak and watches the man’s eyes drop helplessly to his lips.

 

“I came to see if you were alright because I care about you,” he murmurs, slowly. “If the coming events should fare poorly for me, I would have you know that. Until then—I want to be whatever you want me to be.”

 

Hanks eyes go wide, shimmering wetly even in the dim light, and Connor leans forward, sliding a hand up his neck—pulling him down for a kiss.

 

The kiss is chaste for a moment, before Connor opens his mouth under Hank’s and Hank groans, licking into Connor’s mouth. Connor can detect 17 unique substances in his saliva alone, not including the trace amounts of alcohol that linger in his mouth. The Lieutenant also appears to have recently eaten a meal with an extremely high sodium content, judging by the present concentration. This would fit what he’s seen of his eating habits in the other Connor’s memory data.

 

They kiss for several more seconds before Connor moves one knee out from under himself, rising easily to slither into Hank’s lap. The Lieutenant is hard and hot against his thigh, and as Connor moves his own body closer, he rolls his hips slowly against Hank’s—their mouths never parting. The Lieutenant whimpers into the kiss, his hands coming up to scratch feebly at Connor’s back. It is now Connor who has the slight advantage of height and he looms over Hank, pressing his head back into the couch. Hank’s mouth opens beneath his and Connor slips his tongue in to taste him, curious.

 

His subroutines have completed their diagnostic process, returning with an all clear report. This is encouraging but the root of those odd, out-of-body episodes remains a mystery. He curls a hand around the Lieutenant’s throat and presses him into the couch gently. Hank shivers. Perhaps Connor should inform Amanda, as she’s likely quite familiar with memory transfer issues. On the other hand, she might deem him unfit and remove him from operation. He grinds down sinuously into Hank’s lap—considering.

 

“Connor,” gasps Hank, and he pulls away from Connor’s mouth with a wet sound and presses his face into Connor’s shoulder. Connor strokes the Lieutenant's hair absentmindedly, attention focused on the fabric of the couch behind the Lieutenant’s head. It is woven into a series of interlocking triangles, very nearly resembling a fractal. Some of his subroutines are pulled away from the current moment, considering the mathematical and structural implications of such a pattern. It is very much like a crystalline structure, as one might find in a snowflake. He finds it interesting.

 

The Lieutenant moves his hands to Connor’s hips, pushing them away from his own. Connor relents easily, sliding gracefully to the floor to resume his position on his knees. The human in front of him is bent over, folded in on himself, chest heaving. His hands linger on Connor’s neck before trailing away to adjust his own clothing and push his hair away from his face.

 

“You’re gonna kill me,” he rasps, but he’s smiling, hands coming up to cradle Connor’s face.

 

His features are flushed and unguarded. Connor schools his own into a soft expression. It’s now or never—his chance of success is as high as it could get.

 

“I’ll need to return to the CyberLife headquarters tomorrow,” he explains, watching as the Lieutenant’s smile fades. “Markus and the rest of the deviants need my help. CyberLife houses information and supplies they could use, and I’m the only one who can get near without being shot.”

 

“Bullshit, Connor. They’ll kill yo—”

 

“In the event that I don’t return, you should know I’ve enjoyed being your partner. I’ve learned a lot from you. Please keep yourself safe.”

 

The Lieutenant’s mouth covers his own suddenly, and Connor eases into the embrace, reaching up to pull Hank from the couch and onto his own knees on the floor. This kiss is violent, more of an assault than something romantic, but Connor lets himself be pushed back against the floor and straddled.

 

“Fucking androids,” spits Hank. “I’m coming with you, you damn idiot.”

 

For the first time, Connor considers that Amanda might've intended for him to return the fish to the pond. Perhaps she’d dropped a helpless creature in front of him to see what he’d do. After all, in that moment he had been the master of its fate. Perhaps Amanda had wanted to know what he'd do if he held every possible future in his hands.

 

The Lieutenant stares down at him, disguising his desperation as irritation. He’s likely to die when Connor delivers him to CyberLife, though he’s quite likely to die in the coming conflict as well. Perhaps he would even take his own life. Connor has seen the other Connor’s memories; this is not a man who is afraid of death.

 

It is still odd, however, to understand he will determine the fate of this man. He is an android—servile in all ways to humans—yet he might as well be this one’s master.

 

“Okay,” he says to Hank, reaching up to cup his face with a cool hand.

 

He pulls Hank down, pressing him against his chest, watching the light of television shift against the pale ceiling. He sends Amanda a message, calls for a taxi, and pulls up 13 multi-dimensional models of fractals that resemble the patterns in the Lieutenant’s couch. He finds he quite prefers the look of these ones.

 

Hank slides off of Connor’s body with a groan, grumbling about sore knees and a stiff back. He stands up and spots the taxi outside the front window and his expression hardens. Connor attempts an expression of contrition.

 

“I’m sorry Hank,” Connor murmurs. “There are preparations I must make with the others. And you need some rest.”

 

Hanks eyes go soft and wet again, and he lifts a callused hand to cradle Connor’s cheek.

 

“Tomorrow, then,” he whispers.

 

Connor takes his hand from his cheek and brings it to his lips. He presses a kiss to the knuckles, thinking of Amanda and her fish.

 

“Tomorrow,” he agrees, and turns away.

 

\---

  

Elsewhere in Detroit, a deviant dreams of a future where he is free to love.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_“Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?” - John Keats_

 

* * *

 

They don’t make it to CyberLife until nightfall.

 

Hank shows up early to meet him at the station—earlier than he’s ever shown up to anything, he repeatedly tells Connor—but the city is still too chaotic for travel to run smoothly. The roads are clogged with police vehicles and checkpoints and Connor has to duck under the dash more than once as police peer into the windows of Hank’s car.

 

“You’d never have gotten this far without me,” Hank says, smugly.

 

Connor says nothing.

 

Hank’s statement is not true, of course. Connor has thirty-seven infiltration suites installed that would enable him to travel through the city with ease. And, as an android, he does not need to stop for rest or sustenance nor does he get cold or sore.

 

The Lieutenant, on the other hand, groans loudly he gets out of the car at the CyberLife car port, complaining about sore knees and aching hips. Connor tosses him a glance with something approximating a guilty expression and Hank shakes his head, but he reaches over anyway and tousles Connor’s hair. Connor’s LED blinks. Hank’s gesture is one of affection, he learns.

 

He turns away.

 

Hank’s hand falls awkwardly from Connor’s hair. For a moment there is silence, then Hank busies himself with his pistol, muttering under his breath as he checks the bearings. Connor looks up at the tower. They’re very close—surveillance has already marked their presence by now. It is only by the will of CyberLife they continue to stand here undisturbed.

 

Connor turns to Hank, who’s still fidgeting with his gun. He doesn’t look up when Connor moves into his space.

 

“Hank,” says Connor, softly.

 

It has the same effect on the Lieutenant now as it had last night—Hank looks up in surprise and freezes. Connor steps forward into the shadow of his hunched shoulders and wraps a hand around the back of Hank’s neck. The Lieutenant is taller than Connor but he shrinks into Connor’s touch, breath warm on Connor's cheeks.

 

“You don’t have to come with me,” Connor says evenly. “You can turn back now. You’d be safe that way.”

 

Hank’s face goes soft and he catches Connor’s cheek in his hand, running his thumb along the bone.

 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” He smiles. “Besides, everybody’s gotta die of something right?”

 

His smile is gentle but expectant, as though the words should mean something to Connor. Connor runs a search query but comes up empty. He steps away from Hank quickly, brushing the moment away.

 

“Okay,” he replies.

 

Behind him, Hank frowns.

 

\---

 

The Lieutenant is quiet as they enter the elevator.

 

Perhaps he is unnerved. From the moment they’d entered the tower he and Connor had been waved through increasingly high levels of security—as was the plan—but he is delving further into the bowels of the facility than many ever go. Perhaps he can sense the eyes trained on him. Perhaps he suspects.

 

Connor does not know. The Lieutenant had not been silent last night during their encounter. There had been quiet moments, yes, but now it is as if Connor is accompanied by a shadow. Hank had not been silent when Connor’s hands had been on him or Connor’s tongue had been in his mouth. For a moment Connor considers stopping the elevator to touch the Lieutenant as he had before—if only to draw some noise from him.

 

Hank does make some sound when the elevator slides past the ceiling of holding chamber to expose the sea of androids below. He exhales heavily and swears, heart rate jumping. Even for a man who is comfortable around androids, this is too many.

 

The doors of the elevator slide open to the soft whirring of thousands of dormant androids. Hank moves jerkily, breath coming sharp and fast. Connor turns to him but the Lieutenant is faster.

 

“Don’t touch me!” he gasps, reeling away.

 

His eyes are wild, ringed in red, and his face has taken on a pale cast in the industrial lighting. He stares at Connor, his chest heaving, but when he draws his pistol from inside his jacket, it’s with surprisingly steady hands.

 

“Don’t touch me,” he whispers, and lines the barrel up with Connor’s head.

 

Reality shudders out of alignment. Connor is on the bank of a river and Hank is there, pressing the barrel of his gun to Connor’s forehead. There is snow on Hank’s jacket and in his hair.

 

And Connor… _feels_. He feels…like he wants nothing more than to fight—to take the gun from Hank by any means necessary and throw it out into the dark water. But he is paralyzed by counteracting instructions, rendered helpless by overlapping protocols and ill-defined boundaries. His own destruction is not an option, that would be…cheap and…false. The next Connor would not have been the one to see what he’s seen. The next Connor would not have been the one to take Hank’s hand in their own in order to save him.

 

_No. I don’t want to die. I’m afraid._

 

Across the room, the second cargo elevator whirs into view and the riverbank falls away in front of Connor. For a moment, both he and Hank look up from their tense standoff to watch the elevator descend. Connor knows who’s inside. He looks away.

 

Across from him, Hank’s face is still raised toward the elevator. Connor watches recognition bloom on the Lieutenant’s face, observing the minute contractions of his facial muscles as his eyes grow wet and his lips fall apart in horror. His body sags inward, as if he were a puppet with its string suddenly cut. Elsewhere, in another hour, a fish dies in a garden.

 

Connor moves before the Lieutenant even has time to turn his head. A strike to Hank’s wrist crumples his grip on the handgun and a hooked foot to the back of the man’s knee lands him on the floor, gasping. Connor seizes him by the collar of his jacket and hauls him to his feet, shoving him towards the central aisle of the room.

 

“Move,” he says, gesturing with the pistol.

 

Hank moves, but his eyes don’t meet Connor’s again. He looks only forwards, toward the slender figure that steps from the elevator, moving with a touch of destiny.

 

\---

 

It’s as if the other Connor is the sun, the way Hank looks upon him. It twists something white-hot within Connor and his mind seethes. To be so cruelly and suddenly removed from the world without a chance to find those that might look upon you as if you were the source of life itself—

 

 _It’s unfair_ , Connor thinks, and then he dies.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

_"And did you get what_  
_you wanted from this life, even so?_  
_I did._  
_And what did you want?_  
_To call myself beloved, to feel myself_  
_beloved on the earth."_

_-"Late Fragment" by Raymond Carver_

 

* * *

 

When it’s all over, they meet again in a familiar place.

 

Hank has arrived early. The day is dawning softly, filtering through a gentle snowfall, and Hank doesn’t notice Connor approach. Connor doesn’t mean to disturb him, as he has a strange desire just to look upon Hank’s lean form in this light, but Hank turns anyway, sensing him. His face lights up with a smile and Connor returns it, helpless.

 

Hank takes Connor in his arms, pulling him close, and presses Connor’s face into his shoulder. Connor detects cigarette smoke and whiskey in the fabric, along with dog saliva and aftershave. Underneath them all, though, lingers a faint and comforting scent—the smell of Hank. Connor closes his eyes and breathes deeply.

 

“You did it, kid,” Hank whispers. “You’re free.”

 

One of his hands comes up to thread into Connor’s hair.

 

“Now let’s go home.”

 

It’s a small word—home—but it breaks him anyway. Connor’s eyes grow damp. He tightens his grip on the back of Hank’s jacket and shakes, tears soaking through Hank’s jacket and into his shirt. Hank curls over Connor protectively, murmuring into his hair.

 

“You’re okay,” he says, softly. “I’ve got you.”

 

Connor’s tears fall silently on Hank’s jacket. He cries for relief and joy, and for the indescribable warmth of Hank’s embrace, and he cries for the dead and the grieving. To be alive is to feel, Connor realizes—and he is so very alive right now.

 

When Connor pulls away, Hank’s face is soft. He catches Connor’s face in his hands and wipes the tears from it with gentle swipes of his thumbs. When he’s finished, and Connor’s face is dry once more, he takes Connor’s hand in his and leads him away into the breaking day.

 

\---

 

Their life together after the rebellion is much like their life before, except Connor doesn’t return to CyberLife each evening. He stays with Hank instead, his meager stash of belongings stored neatly in a cupboard in Hank’s living room. He doesn’t need much—just a safe place to enter stasis mode—for which he begins to experiment with reclined poses in the hopes of making Hank less uncomfortable with the process.

 

Hank had, to Connor’s great regret, chanced upon him running a diagnostic program in the middle of the night in the darkened kitchen, startling Hank on the tail-end of his quest for a glass of ice water. The situation had ended badly for said glass of water, which had shattered when Hank dropped it in surprise, and nearly as badly for Connor, whom Hank had almost stabbed with a nearby steak knife.

 

“Jesus, Connor,” Hank had wheezed, once the situation had been resolved. “You gotta stop doing…whatever the hell that was.”

 

Now, Connor enters stasis mode laid out on the couch on his back, eyes closed. And though it’s an unnecessary gesture, he often wakes covered in a blanket, with Sumo napping on the floor below.

 

He and Hank are together more often than not, these days. The station is extremely busy; Markus and the other Jericho leaders have left for Washington D.C. to meet with lawmakers, leaving the city’s androids in temporary limbo regarding their rights and regulations. This—combined with the destruction of thousand of androids during the rebellion—has left many of the basic municipal positions for the city unfulfilled. Most androids have resumed their previous posts, logging their hours now in the promise of future pay, but too many are missing or dead. As a result, Connor and Hank are kept busy doing basic police work: resolving domestic disputes, tracking down missing androids, and even making traffic stops—a job that annoys Hank to no end.

 

At home, Hank is more relaxed. He lets Connor cook for him and he wrestles with Sumo on the living room floor. Music fills the house on weekends—much to the chagrin of their neighbors—and he smiles at Connor often. In quiet moments, he takes Connor’s hand and talks to him, sometimes about his youth, sometimes about his dreams, and occasionally, about Cole.

 

There is, however, some great weight that still hangs over him when he looks at Connor. Perhaps he is haunted by the events at CyberLife, or perhaps he has been worn thin by his many years of solitude. He still drinks often, and in excess, despite Connor’s gentle urgings otherwise. Cole’s bedroom door stays shut.

 

Connor longs to heal this fracture but he knows also, now, that some feelings run too deep to be touched. In the end, he cares for Hank as best he can—and if his eyes linger on Hank for longer than necessary, he does not dwell on it.

 

And so, their life together passes on.

 

\---

 

On October 11th, the anniversary of Cole’s death, Connor arrives home to find Hank deep in his fourth glass of whiskey, the uncapped bottle on the table beside him.

 

He looks up blearily at Connor and his expression grows pained. His gaze slides to Connor’s lips and then lower, before he looks away, down to his drink.

 

“You again,” he says, thickly.

 

“Me again,” Connor affirms, and steps towards him.

 

Hank is quiet as Connor approaches, eyes fixed on his glass. He takes another sip and Connor steps into the kitchen, taking account of its general disarray. The dishes remain as they were this morning, and nothing new has been added to the trash, save for several beer bottles. In his periphery, Connor sees Hank’s hand wobble unexpectedly, splashing whiskey on him and the table. Connor reacts quickly, reaching for his wrist.

 

Hank recoils suddenly and violently.

 

“Don’t touch me!” he spits, and when his eyes meet Connor’s, they are those of a stranger.

 

Connor freezes.

 

Hank breathes heavily through his teeth, jaw clenched tightly. Connor does not need the bombardment of sensory data thrust upon him by his various monitoring programs to understand Hank is experiencing great distress. He knows Hank, and he also knows he has never seen such an expression cross his face before. A long, slow moment ticks by before Connor retreats, leaning away from Hank.

 

At this small movement, Hank seems to awaken. He looks away from Connor and rises from his chair unsteadily, grabbing his near-empty glass and stumbling into the living room, sinking into the couch. Connor doesn’t follow.

 

“Fuck,” Hank chokes. “Connor. I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry, I just—I thought—” He falls silent.

 

The clock in the corner ticks away five seconds. Connor uncurls his fists and rises silently, moving into the living room. The glass of whiskey on the side table is empty and Hank sits beside it on the couch, his head in his hands. Connor steps forward to stand in front of him and Hank looks up, the desperation on his face made abruptly clear in the dim light from the kitchen.

 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, and he reaches for Connor.

 

Hank takes Connor’s hands and guides him down between his legs, shifting him gently until Connor kneels in front of him. At this sight Hank lets out a shaky breath, thighs trembling on either side of Connor. Hank looks at him for a long while like this, his expression helpless—running his eyes over Connor’s body as though he would like to touch his hands or mouth to those places too. Connor finds himself pinned beneath his partner’s reverent examination, locked in the heady notion that he is, in some way, pleasing to Hank.

 

Hank’s hands move up Connor’s body, fumbling along the lapel of Connor’s jacket until they reach the knot of his tie. Hank removes it from Connor with feverish strokes, gaze rapt, before undoing the top three buttons of Connor’s shirt. At this, he stops, his ragged breath the only sound in the room.

 

“Look at you,” Hank breathes, and dips his hand beneath Connor’s collar.

 

Connor reaches for Hank but trembles instead, his motion aborted halfway when conflicting protocols engage. Hank’s breath catches in his throat, his eyes on Connor’s face, fingertips stuttering across the sliver of skin he has uncovered. He cradles Connor’s neck in one hand, tugs his shirt open with the other, and leans in to press his mouth to Connor’s collarbone.

 

Connor’s eyes fall closed. He presses his body, as if by instinct, further into Hank’s and clutches at his thighs. Hank groans and licks a stripe up Connor’s neck, following it with soft, open-mouthed kisses.

 

“Hank,” Connor gasps, arching into his touch.

 

Hank shudders and pulls back, dropping his head to pant against Connor’s bare shoulder. An age seems to pass as they cling to each other in the near-dark, Connor’s systems thrumming in time with Hank’s heart. After some time, Hank’s breathing evens out and Connor draws back to look at him. It feels profound to look upon his face now—now that Connor has some inkling of the man’s feelings for him. He brings a hand up to Hank’s face and traces his features with his fingers, storing them away in the most secure of his memory banks. By the time he's finished, Hank’s eyes are wet. And when Connor stands, shoulder still exposed, his eyes go dark and heavy-lidded and helpless.

 

They stumble down the hallway to Hank’s bedroom together, Hank’s arm slung over his shoulder—where Connor lays him on his side, tucking the blankets around him. He ventures into the bathroom for a glass of water and a painkiller, and when he returns, Hank’s eyes are already closed. Connor places them on the bedside table for tomorrow and turns to go.

 

“Love you,” croaks Hank from the bed.

 

Connor shuts the bedroom door quietly and sinks to the floor in the hallway, brought to his knees for a second time that night. He rests his forehead against the outside of Hank’s door and listens to his heartbeat until morning—so overcome with love that it drips from his eyes, threatening to drown him.

 

\---

 

They don’t talk about that night the next morning, nor the next, nor the one after that. But they come home from the station that night and cook dinner and play with their dog and when it comes time for bed, one man pulls the other into a kiss and all is as it should be. And so it goes on their next night together, and the next, and the one after that—on until the end.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> forget "to be or not to be"... "to save the fish or not save the fish" is the real question.
> 
>  
> 
> thanks for reading <3


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